


Haunted Hallows

by misskatieleigh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Order of the Phoenix AU, a sort of ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12571388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: Two days until Hallowe'en and he's being haunted by Sirius Black.





	Haunted Hallows

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [bright-elen](http://bright-elen.tumblr.com) for the quick beta

He's been having dreams.

On the surface, this isn't unusual. Everyone dreams. These feel different though, in a way he can't describe. At first, they were just vague impressions. The pressure of a hand pressed against his palm, the scent of ozone over a potion gone wrong; all things that are familiar, but don't point to a specific moment. He’s always been shit at potions, smelling their evidence in his dreams almost seems the logical next step in a series of failures. As the nights pass, they become something more distinct. Dark hair tumbled across his lap, the flick of a wrist turning a wand; his mind clutches at these attempting to find the invisible threads that bind them together into one moment. 

One person. 

It takes a full moon and an owl from Harry for the connection to blaze strong and sure in his mind. That and the bright burst of laughter that he could never forget, an almost huff of breath against his ear that's more memory than dream. 

Two days until Hallowe’en and he's being haunted by Sirius Black. 

***

Remus Lupin considers himself a pragmatic man. He recognizes his place in the world, his strengths and his weaknesses. He knows there are dark creatures and evil beings, wizards and dragons and, most importantly, ghosts. He never imagined that he’d be haunted by one, nevermind that it's been almost four months since Sirius died. Half of him wants to know why, the other just wants to know what took so long.

He recognizes that it's a ghost and not a dream when Sirius kisses him. One, because he has never allowed himself to imagine this even in dreams, and two, because he wakes up and finds that he is not alone in his bed. Sirius as a ghost is translucent, streetlights from the unshaded window cutting through him in fluorescent sharpness, but somehow more tangible because of it. Remus has a half second thought that moonlight would be more fitting, but the moon has tipped ‘round toward waning and rises from behind his apartment besides. 

He must look a fright, because Sirius grins, wild and beautiful as he always did, excepting those twelve years that they do not discuss. Then, he dips forward, mouth against Remus’ like that is the logical reason for his visit, and Remus scrambles back on the bed, dragging his blankets up his chest with a shaking hand. 

“Oh don't play shy with me, my dear Moony. You've already kissed me back once tonight.”

The words cut through the last shred of doubt in Remus’ mind; Sirius is here. Somehow the reasoning behind it seems to matter very little, but he has a history of asking the most inopportune questions, so of course he cannot just let things be. 

“How - why are you here?” His heart is racing, tipping toward a dangerous pace with every millimeter of distance that Sirius crosses, gliding closer to him on the bed. The wolf in him snarls against being the prey, caught up in the predatory gleam in Sirius’ eye. (That a ghost's eyes should not gleam twists in the back of his mind, but self-preservation shoves it away.) 

“Why do you always have to start with questions? Can't you just be happy to see me?” 

That hurts, deep in his chest. Seeing Sirius went from joy to torture in an instant, swinging back the other way again twelve years later like a soldier snapping salute. He’s not sure his heart ever recovered from the trauma of it, the ability to look at his friend without the nagging doubt of his betrayal nipping at the edges. By the time he’d made it past the distance those years had stretched out between them, poised on the edge of maybe possibly speaking his feelings into the air between them, Sirius had stepped in front of a curse and fallen. He's a pragmatist. He's been in love with Sirius Black since he was fourteen, quite certain that the feeling was unrequited in any way but friendship. Clearly death has done nothing to dissuade his heart of the notion. 

The moment has stretched on too long, Remus playing through scenarios in his mind while Sirius hovers overtop him. Let no one ever say that Sirius is a patient man, for he cannot abide waiting, especially for Remus to speak words that he’s afraid of. Instead, he leans down for another kiss, one that coaxes Remus’ mouth open, a warm hand at his jaw tilting them into a proper angle. That ghosts are not warm is immaterial. Remus allows himself this kiss, opens to Sirius like they’ve done this a thousand times instead of just this once. Thirty-six years old and the best kiss of his life is from a ghost. 

Finally they pull apart, Sirius’ eyes darting across his face to take in the flush darkening his cheeks. He grins, mouth curling up at the corners like an unfurling flower, his breath coming out as a rush against Remus’ wet lips. Remus closes his eyes, his hands finding their way into the soft material of Sirius’ shirt and tugging his weight down. He tips them onto their sides, one leg tucked between Sirius’ thighs like he can anchor them in place. Distantly he realizes that he’s crying, the tears slipping over the bridge of his nose to dampen the pillow below their heads. Sirius’ smile softens toward fondness, calloused fingers brushing the wetness away. 

“Don’t cry, Moony. This isn’t quite the welcome home I imagined.” 

“Excuse me,” he chuckles through a sob, “Never imagined our first kiss would be like this.” 

Sirius draws his eyebrows together for a moment, then winks. “Ah, but you admit that you imagined it, which is the much more salient point of the two.”

“I would remind you that you kissed first, Padfoot. So keep your disparaging remarks to yourself.”

Remus feels warmer than he has in months (four to be precise), the ache of the last full moon seeming to slip from his bones the longer he leans into Sirius’ hold. His eyelids feel heavy, the rush of emotions combined with the hour of night pulling him back toward sleep. “How long d’you have here?” he slurs out, eyes closing once, then twice in slow succession. 

Sirius runs a hand across his forehead, fingers brushing the fringe back from his face gently. His heartbeat has slowed to a steady thrum, a clock ticking away the moments under the press of his hand to Sirius’ chest. He falls asleep between one moment and the next, Sirius’ words slipping into his thoughts as he drifts away. 

“You’ll see in the morning, love.”

***

Morning brings fresh aches, a stiffness born of holding one’s body against another like it’s going to escape. It’s warmer than normal in the apartment, perhaps one last wisp of summer trickling into the autumn chill. Remus rubs his face blearily against the chest under his cheek, soft cotton catching on the stubble of any number of days since he last bothered to shave. The rumble of voice that crawls out of that chest is far too familiar, and Remus almost falls off the bed when he hears it. 

“If you’re going to rub off against me, at least direct your face a little lower.” 

Sirius sounds like he’s smoked for twenty years in the morning, his hair a disheveled nest of curls and his eyes a dark dark grey. He’s the most beautiful thing Remus thinks he’s ever seen, mostly because he is not, in fact, a ghost. Sirius laughs, the sound bursting out of him like he’s been jarred roughly. 

“Sorted it out yet? Or are you still thinking I’m a ghost.”

Remus clears his throat, ducking his head in embarrassment and rubbing at the nape of his neck before climbing out of the bed. “I need tea for this. Possibly with whisky.”

He shuffles into the kitchen, far fewer steps away than he’d prefer. A man likes to have an existential crisis in peace, not within view of it’s cause. This isn’t helped by the fact that Sirius follows him out of bed like a shadow, padding across his apartment in a shirt and his pants as if it’s completely normal that he is in fact alive and seemingly well when he had been quite dead hours ago. 

“Moony, you’re thinking too hard. I can smell the smoke from here. Either that or someone’s been in your Floo.”

Remus turns around, still backing into the kitchen but unable to look away from Sirius’ face. The sun coming through the kitchen window highlights how pale he’s gotten, heavy black ink peeking out of his shirt at the collar and down his arms. That itself is a testament to his realness, as Remus is certain that a ghost of Sirius would sort it’s way toward being caught at seventeen and forever lovely. Not that Sirius at thirty-six is less so, but it’s a lived in sort of lovely. A scarred and tattooed sort of lovely that is all at once too real in Remus’ mind. He stops short in the middle of the kitchen, bare feet on the linoleum that curls up at the edges where the glue has let go. 

“You’re really here, aren’t you. I’ve not gone crazy.” 

It’s not a question, but Sirius nods anyways, inching forward on cautious feet. “I’m really here. Couldn’t tell you how, maybe they finally got sick of me on the other side, kicked my old arse back for you to deal with.”

Remus can’t help the grin at that, growing wider as Sirius huffs in affront. Then, acceptance tucked neatly into his chest, he steps forward to pull Sirius into his arms. “You’re really here.”

“I am.” Remus buries his face against Sirius’ neck, finding the sleep scent of him hiding under all that hair. He has a fleeting thought of never letting go, capturing them in this moment so he can never have to suffer through losing Sirius again. The reality is that there is still an enemy creeping at the doorstep and another battle left to fight. He can’t protect everyone, but he can live in the moments he’s been granted at the very least. 

“Well, what took you so long?”

“Come on Remus, I was never on time for anything in my life. Why would it be any different now?”

Sirius shifts backwards, tugging at his hips with impatient hands. “Forget the sodding tea and take me back to bed.” The lure of Sirius’ sleep rough voice is almost enough, but him pulling away to strip his shirt over his head is what makes the decision clear. Remus follows, back into the comfort of a bed that’s suddenly not empty, towards a man that is suddenly not gone. 

Sirius smiles, an echo of his seventeen year old self shining through as he lounges back against Remus’ sheets. Remus stops at the foot of the bed, committing the sight to memory. Sirius laughs. “Should we get a photographer in here, or will you be joining me?”

Remus stretches and reaches back to pull his shirt off. “Patience is a virtue, they say.”

“As if anyone ever called me virtuous, you bastard. Get in bed!”

Remus comes around the bed and climbs in, slotting himself against Sirius’ unruly limbs. They fit together somehow, filling the hollowed out spaces that seem unspannable on the best of days. Sirius tugs him into another kiss, forcefulness giving way at the first brush of Remus’ tongue against his own. It’s a heady thing, to quiet Sirius into something close to submission. 

Sirius pulls away, sliding his hands down Remus’ back and affecting a somewhat cheeky grin. “Well, Mr. Lupin, you’ve got me in your bed. Now what are you going to do with me?”

There’s something of the wolf in his smile. He can tell by the way Sirius’ eyes go dark, legs pressing open to accept his weight between them. There’s probably a thousand things that need to be said between the two of them, questions that need answers, wounds that need dressing, but for right now, everything he wants is in his sights and he can’t look away.


End file.
